Mermaidens
by elev
Summary: "Meet Leslie Johnson, mermaid." John blinked in confusion. Surely Finch was using some obscure literary reference, or perhaps making a pun. It was too early in the day for wordplay. Team Machine's latest number is a mermaid! Careese, especially in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Mermaidens**

 **Chapter 1**

By the end of the first buzz from the cell phone, John Reese was awake.

Halfway through the second buzz, he had already rolled over and reached out to silence it, hoping he had turned it off it in time to allow his partner to stay asleep.

For a precious few seconds, he laid there in the quiet bedroom, reluctant to leave the warmth of the sheets and the woman sleeping next to him, her breaths deep, slow, and steady. Half-covered by the bedding, Joss Carter's languid form was silhouetted against the early morning light beyond the drapes. John allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate what a lucky man he was to be beside this marvelous woman and to have her in his life. Then, reluctantly, he carefully extricated himself from the sheets and made his way to the edge of the bed, taking care not to jostle the mattress and wake Carter.

But it was not to be.

"Hey," Carter murmured into her pillow, her eyes still closed. "Case?"

"Yeah," John said gently. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'ok. Was between dreams. Half-awake."

"I hope they were nice dreams." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"They were," Joss said wistfully. "I dreamed I was royalty. Princess Carter was looking for her Prince Charming." She opened one sleepy eye and smiled. "Oh, look. I found him."

"You know how it goes with sleeping princesses," John said. He leaned over and gave Carter a quick kiss on the cheek, then another. "They get a kiss."

"Does that mean I have to get up now?"

John chuckled. "No, go back to sleep. I'll call you later."

"Sounds good," Carter said.

John couldn't resist giving Carter one last quick peck on the cheek before he left.

#####

When John arrived at the Library later in the morning, he found Harold Finch already bustling about, retrieving pictures and documents from the printer in the corner and taping them up on the pane of glass that served as a whiteboard. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting golden rays onto puddles of sunlight. Bear, who had been dozing peacefully in his doggie bed near the desk, jumped to his paws the instant he smelled the sweet pastries within the cardboard box in John's hands.

"Good morning, Harold," said John. He set the box of donuts down next to the keyboard and shook his head at Bear, who continued to gaze at the box with pleading eyes. John scritched behind the dog's ears and said, "Who's our number?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Finch said. He limped past John on his way to the old laser printer as it spat out another sheet of paper. "Meet Leslie Johnson, mermaid."

John blinked in confusion. Surely Finch was using some obscure literary reference, or perhaps making a pun. It was too early in the day for wordplay. John hadn't even had the chance to get his coffee from the Keurig. "What?"

"Precisely what I said, Mr. Reese." With difficulty, Finch eased into his desk chair. "Miss Johnson is a professional mermaid. You can see for yourself."

Still unsure, John stepped closer to the whiteboard and examined the photos. In the first one was a young Black woman, maybe twenty-five or thirty years old, with deep brown skin and wavy, jet-black hair. She stood in front of a sign for an aquarium complex. Nothing unusual there, nor in the photo next to it, in which Leslie Johnson posed in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to another woman, who Reese suspected was her mother.

Reese raised an eyebrow when he got to the next photo. From the waist up, it was Leslie Johnson lying playfully on the beach, leaning backwards with her arms behind her for balance. But from the waist down...

"It's rather convincing," Finch said.

John wasn't sure that Finch's description did the picture justice.

"Is that Photoshop?" he asked, motioning to the glistening mermaid tail of green and teal. It started just below Leslie's belly button and encompassed her hips and legs, ending in a wide, fluted fin where her feet should have been. The tail was covered in thousands of tiny, iridescent scales, overlapping in a glittering, shimmering weave, and the tail fin was easily several feet across and long.

"No," Finch said. "Not Photoshop. Miss Johnson regularly performs in this attire." He motioned to one of the many monitors on his computer desk and opened a web browser tab.

"'Mermaid Ria, queen of the high seas'," John read aloud once the page had finished loading. "'See her at the Aquatic Center this August.' Also available for children's birthday parties and other events." He indicated for Finch to scroll down to the photo gallery, stopping at a particularly impressive underwater photo. Leslie looked to be suspended effortlessly in a cerulean expanse, her hair and the tail fin floating lazily in the clear waters. She was lit from behind by rays of sun, highlighting the edges of her hair and tail and giving her an ethereal look. "Are you _sure_ that's not Photoshop?"

"I'm certain, Mr. Reese. You are looking at a very high-quality, bespoke mermaid tail—several thousand dollars' worth, at the least. The manufacturing of such tails is a growing industry."

"The more you know," John said dryly. "Where should we start? Do you think she's planning to lure some poor sailor to his doom?"

"I've done the usual prerequisite searches," Finch said. "Bank statements, relationships. She works part-time as an office receptionist and supplements her income with her mermaid performances. According to her social networking posts, she hopes to one day perform full-time. In addition, she has an ex, and the parting was not amicable, as far as I can tell. Ronald Williams works as a vehicle painter and specializes in vinyl-wrap installation on performance cars."

"Dibs on him," Shaw said. "I want to see the cars."

John, who was well used to Sameen Shaw's stealthy entrances, merely nodded in greeting, but Finch flinched in surprise.

"Good morning, Miss Shaw," he said. "Glad you could join us."

"Why'd they break up?" Shaw asked.

"I'm still digging up information on that," Finch said. "Unfortunately, much of their communication was via Snapchat, and that means that their messages are long lost. But there may be other data we can harvest from their phones via bluejacking."

"Anything else stand out about Leslie?" John asked. "It's not a lot to go on."

"Unfortunately, none yet. I'll keep digging."

"I'll tail Rob," Shaw volunteered. She walked off without waiting for affirmation, her exit as stealthy as her entrance.

"I'll follow Leslie," John said. "And I'll see if I can get Carter or Ellie to check out her house."

"Miss Johnson is likely at the office by now," Finch said. "I'll furnish you with the address and a suitable excuse to loiter."

"Sounds good," John said. He gave Bear one last scratch behind the ears and headed for the coffee machine.

##### _  
_

 _A/N: my first try at writing Careese! Let me know what you think please!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Thank you all so much for the warm welcome to the Careese ship! Replying to some of the reviews here (didn't manage to send everybody PMs)_

 _Impvme: thank you! I was surprised to find out the depth of the world of professional mermaids (no pun intended). The mermaids put a lot of effort and love into everything from their tail design and manufacturing to their lore and performances. I hope to capture that in this story.  
_

 _odalys-ortiz: I was nervous about posting it, but I'm really happy that it's got so many positive reviews. I'll keep it coming!_

 _JayJR: I don't think I've ever seen a story about professional mermaiding, so hopefully I do it justice! I'm excited to write about it. I think you'll all like where it goes ;)_

#####

John Reese sighed as he strode down the sidewalk towards Leslie Johnson's workplace: a modern four-story building, all glass and metal and strange, aggressive angles, tucked between an anachronistic diner and a dour gray office building that looked down disapprovingly on its unconventional neighbor.

He hiked the laptop bag strap a little further up his shoulder, pushed the fake eyeglasses a little further up his nose, and ensured that his ID badge, courtesy of Finch, was clipped neatly to his jacket.

 _John Moore_ , it said. _CompuTech, Inc_.

"Really Harold?" he muttered as he walked, deftly weaving through a crowd of pedestrians. "IT tech?"

Finch's voice sounded in his earpiece, tinny and amused. "As it so happens, Ms. Johnson's floor spontaneously developed terrible wireless connectivity issues earlier this morning, and they were quite relieved to hear that CompuTech, their outsourced IT firm, could have someone out within the hour."

"How coincidental," John said dryly. "Funny how that works out."

"Indeed. Don't worry, Mr. Reese. You won't _actually_ be troubleshooting their wireless network controller, which, unfortunately, still has its default administrative password set. It was trivial to log in and kick all of their devices off the network."

"You sound disappointed. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Harold. I'm sure we'll find _something_ challenging for you to hack. Someday."

"Your confidence is infinitely reassuring, Mr. Reese."

Chuckling, John pulled open the glass doors and headed inside. He consulted the directory in the airy lobby and then ascended the sweeping circular staircase to the 3rd floor.

John recognized Leslie Johnson instantly from the photos Finch had pulled from the Aquatic Center website. She was enthroned in a futuristic office chair behind the curved reception desk, flanked on either side by leafy potted plants and abstract paintings. Her outfit was precise and understated, strictly professional; a deep maroon suit jacket over a tan blouse, a delicate gold necklace, and her jet-black hair done up in a textured bun.

"Hello," she said, looking up as he approached. "Welcome to Faridah Loom."

Her skin was smooth, like milk chocolate; her eyebrows proud, her fingers slender. In a way, she reminded John of Carter, albeit a younger version.

John gave her his best charming grin. "Hi," he said, holding up the badge. "John Moore. Information technology. I hear you're having wifi issues."

"Oh, thank God," Leslie said. "We're really struggling here. I can't even pull up my calendar."

She turned briefly to glance at her monitor, and John noted with amusement the tiny golden seahorse earrings dangling from her ears.

"I _think_ I saw a nine o'clock appointment before the wifi went down," she said, "and then there's the meeting this afternoon with…" She sighed and rubbed her forehead, looking sheepish. "Sorry. It's been a stressful morning."

"No worries," John said. "I'll get right on it. I'll need to see your, ah, routers in the offices. You know. Like that one." He pointed to the unassuming square device mounted to the ceiling.

"Access points," Finch corrected helpfully in his ear. "They may look like consumer routers, but the actual routing functions are handled by dedicated equipment in a communications closet."

John ignored him.

"Oh, are those the problem?" Leslie asked.

"Probably. I'll need to do some troubleshooting to tell. Do you have a spare desk I can borrow?"

"Sure, let's get you set up…"

As Leslie led him down the hall, John surreptitiously unlocked his phone and fired up the bluejacking app. Within seconds, it had established a connection to Leslie's phone and landed its payload, which would give Finch remote access to everything on the device via its cellular connection.

"Will this do?" Leslie asked when they reached a conference room. It was modestly furnished, with a handsome wooden desk and comfortable office chairs. A frosted glass wall separated it from the hallway.

"Perfect," John said. "I'll get to work right away. Oh, uh, leave the door open, please. It helps with the signal." (In reality, John wanted to make sure he could hear any commotion from the reception area.)

"Sure," she said, although she sounded a little dubious. John was pretty sure he heard a chuckle over his earpiece. "Let me know if you need anything," she said, and she left.

John sat down, carefully unzipped his tote, and withdrew the laptop, powering it on.

"All right," he said to Finch, _sotto voice_. "Got her phone. I'm assuming you're already in the office's network?"

"I was in their network since this morning," Finch said primly. "They really shouldn't be using default administrative credentials."

"Right. Do you need me to get hands-on with any of their computers?"

"No, I believe I have full access to all the devices on the network. I will give you some time to look busy before resuming Internet connectivity intermittently. I can turn it off and on as needed to give you time to 'track down the issue', or leave it in a degraded state so you can 'monitor the situation' while you investigate Miss Johnson's coworkers."

"Sounds good. Let's give it ten minutes. Anything interesting on the phone yet?"

"I'm running my download script now—I'll let you know when it's finished. In the meantime, you may wish to visit the company's website. They have a photo gallery of their employees. Sending you the link now."

A shortcut appeared on the desktop. John double-clicked it and was soon browsing through the website for Faridah Loom. He quickly found the photo gallery and skimmed through the brief biographies, memorizing the smiling faces next to each one as best he could in preparation for a little social engineering.

He was interrupted by an incoming text from Joss.

 _Thanks for letting me sleep in, O Prince Charming,_ the message said. It was followed by a kissy emoticon. _I needed my beauty sleep. How's the case?_

John smiled to himself as he tapped out several replies, starting with a heart emoji.

 _case ok_ _m_ _ermaid in trbl_

 _prince charming 2 the rescue_

He continued reading the company website while Joss typed out a reply.

 _Hey, come on, only one Princess allowed per Prince Charming. It's the rules. Also, use your words. If Fusco can do it, so can you. ;)_

John sent back a single letter: _k_

He could feel Joss rolling her eyes halfway across the city.

 _But seriously. How's the case?_

 _srsly,_ John wrote. _prfessional_ _mermaid, names Leslie Johnson_

 _Professional Mermaid?_ _That's a thing?_ Joss asked. Thirty seconds later: _Oh wow. That's a thing! Beautiful outfits._

John grinned and carefully typed back a reply: _ur more beautiful ;)_

 _Flatterer. I'll pull her records. Might take a bit. Busy at work this morning. Because some of us have jobs you know ;)_

 _k thx love u,_ John replied. He went back to the biographies, gleaning useful information here and there—hobbies, previous employment, personal history, any facts that he might be able to leverage in conversations. He smirked a little bit when he scrolled down to Leslie's biography, where she briefly mentioned how she "loved the sea and its inhabitants."

He was interrupted by Finch's voice in his ear.

"I've managed to pull a few text messages from Miss Johnson's phone. It appears the breakup was not exactly cordial. I've sent the highlights to your phone."

John checked the messages.

 _babe please i'll make it right,_ said a message from Ronald Williams. _ill sell the car if i have to i mean it this time_

 _get in that fucking car,_ the response said _, drive away and never come back. im done with u!_

 _fine bittch, be like that_

"Wow," John said. "What led up to that?"

"Unfortunately, there's not many messages before that, and those that exist are much the same. I gather Mr. Williams switched to text messages after they stopped using Snapchat—perhaps she blocked him. Miss Shaw may be able to get more details from Mr. Williams' phone…"

#####

"Hey, Finch?"

"Yes, Miss Shaw?"

"Can I have another parking spot in the garage? I want a—"

"No," Finch said, and he hung up.

"Douchebag," Shaw muttered.

She went back to admiring the sleek cars parked in a neat line in front of the auto shop. The first one was a vintage WRX, jewel blue, with scintillated exhaust tips and a sweeping wing on the trunk lid. It was a beautiful car, or at least, it would've been had the owner not ruined it with an absolutely _terrible_ stance job, lowering the body and tilting the chrome wheels outward for no good reason at all. Shaw frowned in distaste and passed it by, wondering idly if it'd be worth the effort to jack it, freeing it from the abuse of its current owner. Probably not. Stance bros tended to be hard on the drivetrain, and Shaw did not enjoy driving with a fried clutch, thank you very much.

But it was a classic model, real old-school, with smooth lines and trim body, not a boxy monstrosity like the newer ones...

 _No, stay focused on the case,_ Shaw reminded herself.

She allowed herself another minute or two to look over the cars, passing a few bimmers, admiring a bright red Golf R, and snorting at an iridescent green Audi that had been lowered to the point where it would be useless the moment it encountered a speed bump. Somebody had more dollars than sense.

She shook her head and trotted further up the sidewalk to the garage bays. As she neared, she heard voices coming from inside.

As she peeked around the corner, the conversation escalated to a full-blown screaming match.

" _—erfucking_ idiot! I told you to be careful!"

"Lay off, man! It's just a scratch!"

" _On a sixty-k ride_."

"It'll buff out—"

Shaw peeked around the corner. Two men stood next to a silver sports car; one with his hands held up in supplication, the other gesturing angrily at the vehicle. (Whatever flaw had prompted the argument was invisible to Shaw at this distance.) One of the men—the one getting yelled at—was tall and lanky, wearing a ratty T-shirt and shorts. He sported an impressive array of tattoos on his legs and arms.

The other man was far shorter—in fact, barely taller than Shaw. But he made up for his lack of stature with the palpable anger rolling off him. Shaw recognized the Black man as Leslie's ex-boyfriend, Ronald Williams. He began to pace in a tight circle, looked positively livid—jaw tensed, eyebrows furrowed, fists clenched, the whole nine yards.

Shaw watched, curious how the situation would play out. Neither man had noticed her.

"This is the _second time_ you've fucked up somebody's car!"

"Sorry, man! I'll—"

"You'll what? Buy him a new fucking quarter panel? It's _fucked_." His voice echoed throughout the garage.

"Come on, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad? It's _a foot long_ scratch _._ You _mother-_ "Ronald took a menacing step forward, getting right into the other man's space, but then, abruptly, he backed off, his eyes closed. He appeared to be muttering something under his breath.

"Uh," the other man said.

"Fuck off, Jeremy," Ronald said. He still sounded angry, but at least he didn't seem like he was about to start a fist fight. "Just—fuck _off_. I'll deal with the scratch."

Jeremy quickly nodded and retreated, leaving through a door that led into an office next to the garage. Ronald continued to mutter as he stared at the car, has hands on his hips. He still hadn't noticed Shaw, who was taking the opportunity to bluejack his phone. The phone, however, wasn't making things easy—perhaps it was a newer model, or maybe the manufacturer had bothered to release security patches on a regular basis. Either way, it meant that the fancy software Finch had developed would need a few minutes to work. So, she pocketed the phone, rolled her shoulders, put her hands in her pockets, and plastered on the friendliest smile she could muster (which wasn't much, but at least it was better than her usual scowl).

Shaw made sure to make plenty of noise as she approached—harder footsteps, scuffing her heel on the ground, sniffing like she had allergies. She'd learned long ago that civilians didn't take to her natural stealth as well as John did (which was how Elizabeth had given her a black eye, but that was a story for another day). But even after all that effort, Ronald didn't notice her, so she called out, "Hey."

He started and turned. Shaw quickly noted the clenched fists and tensed shoulders, the fight-or-flight reaction. _Twitchy_ , she thought. _Wonder if he's still mad or if it's something else_. But he relaxed his shoulders once he got a good look at her.

"Uh, hi," he said. "Sorry, didn't notice you. Getting your car detailed today?"

" _Actually_ ," Shaw said, "I was thinking about getting it wrapped. It's really…plain. Can you spiff it up?"

"Yeah, uh, we can do that." He relaxed further, although there was still something off about his movements. "Let's take a look. Got any colors or patterns in mind?"

"Not really," Shaw said. "I was looking at the cars out front. Hoping to get a little inspiration, you know?"

"Yeah? You see anything you like?"

They headed outside.

"I like the WRX," she said. "That color really does it for me. The metallic finish is nice."

"That's my ride," he said proudly, and internally, Shaw groaned. But still, there was a chance for redemption—

"…did all the work myself," Ronald said, gesturing to the car. "Put the nice rims on it, stanced it out and everything."

—okay, no, he was an idiot, but Shaw kept up the smile.

"It's in great condition," she said. "Looks nice."

"Yeah, I think the clutch might be going though. Common problem, you know how it is."

 _Common, my_ ass, Shaw thought to herself. _Have you tried not doing burnouts at every stop light?_

"That your car there?" Ronald said, pointing to the Buick that Shaw had borrowed from the garage where Finch kept the pool of "clean" cars for use on their cases. It was gray. Extremely gray, and extremely boring. Its engine was anemic—by Shaw's standards, at least—and the drivetrain could only send power to the front wheels. Its one saving grace was the third pedal, but even that wasn't enough to make the car fun to drive.

Shaw was pretty sure Finch was giving her all the crappy disposable cars to express his displeasure at the number of wrecks she and Root (okay, mostly Root) had caused last month.

"Yeah," Shaw said. "That's my car. You can see why I want something flashier."

"Paint's in good shape," he said noncommittally, circling the vehicle. "Don't see any rust or dents. I can do this, easy. Come on into the office and I'll show you our catalog—" He paused, his eyes focused beyond Shaw. She turned to look, reflexively reaching for the gun tucked into her waistband. There was a car, a nondescript black SUV, driving past a little slower than Shaw would have liked. She caught a glimpse of a man sitting in the passenger's seat before the window rolled up and the vehicle drove off, picking up speed. Unfortunately, the SUV was already too far away for the license plate to be legible.

"Anyway, uh, come inside," Ronald said quickly. "We'll get you set up."

 _Suspicious_ , Shaw thought.

As they headed towards the garage, Shaw checked her phone, pleased to see that the bluejacking process was nearly done. She sent a text message telling Finch to check local traffic cameras for the strange vehicle and then followed Ronald into the office.

#####

"Okay, Finch," Shaw said a half-hour later as she treaded down the sidewalk towards a café across the street. It offered a good vantage point of the auto detailing shop. "Something terrible is about to happen to your car, so you'll need to buy me another one."

"Dare I ask what you've done, Miss Shaw?"

"Ron sold me on the bright pink wrap and the spinners on the wheels. It'll be ready next week. Also, I need a ride."

"I'm sure you can find one yourself," Finch said tersely.

"You just hate fun. Anything on that SUV?"

"As it turns out, Miss Shaw, there are many black SUVs driving in that part of New York at the moment. Taking travel time to the nearest intersection with traffic cameras into account, there are three black SUVs of interest. I am attempting to dig up information on each of the owners."

"That's something, I guess. How about Ron's phone?"

"Much of the same as what we pulled from Leslie's phone. I'm hoping to find more on social media, but so far I haven't identified the cause of the breakup."

"That sucks," Shaw said. "He definitely has an anger problem. Looks like he might have taken an anger management class or two—I think he was counting in his head or something to stop himself from punching his coworker into next Thursday."

"Interesting. I will research that. Anything else?"

"Nope. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Excellent. And might I add, Miss Shaw—I hope you like driving a Camry on the next case."

He hung up before she could get a word in.

 _Asshole_ , she thought.

#####


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: You may have noticed a distinct lack of Carter so far. That will change soon. :)_ _Carter and John have a very active role in the 2nd half of the story._

 _A scene with Carter and John got pushed to next chapter; I wanted to get something posted and this one was getting awkwardly long._

#####

Root had two modes: silent but creepy, or talkative and annoying. Nothing in between.

Today, the switch was firmly in the _annoying_ position.

Elizabeth Ruben had long ago learned that the best way to deal with Root's incessant chattering sprees was to be all zen-like and just let it happen. Responding with even the slightest hint of perturbation just encouraged her. It was best to let her ramble, keeping the responses as neutral as possible.

Ideally, the best way to deal with Root was to not be anywhere near her, but she made that solution frustratingly difficult at times. It was hard to get rid of her; like a cat, she went where she wanted, when she felt like it. For instance, today, Root had kind of just…shown up. One moment Elizabeth had been walking alone down the street (or at least, as alone as one could get in New York). And then, like a magic trick, Root was by her side, as though she'd been there all along.

And she was _talking_.

"…but that's okay, I don't judge much. Compared to the guy I was investigating last week, your browser history is perfectly tame."

Sometimes, ignoring her just didn't work. The bullshit filtered through, some odd phrase catching the ear like a sour note, and then Root had your attention.

"Wait, what?" Elizabeth said.

"Just seeing if you're listening."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Not really. Just thinking about the case."

"You're not _nervous_ about a little B&E, are you?"

" _No_ , I'm not," Elizabeth said firmly.

Well, maybe she was, a little. Whenever she got the text message from John or Shaw, she always got flutters in her stomach—part excitement, part nerves, especially when the task required her to fly solo. The pre-case jitters, she called them, and even a good cup of tea couldn't calm them down. It was only natural. Working with John and the team wasn't exactly above-board. Anybody in their right mind would've been nervous about breaking into a stranger's apartment to snoop around and hack their computer.

In a way, it was nice to have Root along for backup.

Not that she'd _ever_ tell Root that.

"Are you _sure_ you're not nervous?" Root purred, demonstrating, as usual, her ability to be obnoxiously and eerily perceptive.

"What I'm _nervous_ about is someone seeing us together and jumping to the conclusion that we know each other."

"Owch, nice zinger."

Elizabeth sighed, running her fingers through her wild, frizzy hair. A few strands came loose. Annoyed, she brushed them aside, wondering if dealing with Root's bullshit could cause hair loss.

The walk from the subway station to Leslie Johnson's apartment wasn't much more than a block, but Root's presence made it feel far longer. Elizabeth did her best to tune out the other woman as she began nattering on again, this time about Shaw and how _unfair_ it was that she wouldn't let Root drive anymore, just because of that _one_ incident.

Elizabeth pulled her cell phone out of her skirt pocket and checked the address of Leslie's apartment again, wishing that she could just teleport there instead of walking another minute with Root, who was _still_ talking.

"Don't you have something better to do today?" Elizabeth asked, frustrated.

"Not really," Root said.

"Really? No corporate secrets to steal?"

"Nope."

"Nobody to kidnap and torture with your talking?"

"Uh-uh. Although, if you _really_ want to be kidnapped again—"

"Eat a dick. What about Shaw? Can't you bug her?"

"I'm giving her space. She's still mad about me wrecking the Bugatti."

"What about the other guy John mentioned? Can't you go break into _his_ place and snoop around—you know, without me?"

"Maybe this afternoon."

"There's _no one_ in the city who needs a crazy hacker? Preferably someone at least five blocks away?"

"You should be flattered, Lizzy. I could be doing lots of things, but I'm hanging out with _you_ instead."

"Stuff it."

"Stuff it where?" Root said suggestively.

"Up your ass," Elizabeth said firmly. "Along with whatever else you're about to say."

Root just laughed. Elizabeth tuned her out again. To her relief, they had arrived at the stately brick apartment building. They took the stairs to the third floor (because there was _no_ way in Hell Elizabeth was going to let herself get stuck in a rickety-ass elevator with Root) and strode down the carpeted hall.

Root had finally shut up, probably because even she realized that there was a need for stealth when breaking into somebody's apartment. She leaned casually against the wall and checked her phone as Elizabeth put her ear to the door, listening intently for the sound of any occupants within.

"Cracked her network password," Root said softly, tapping rapidly on her phone screen.

"Already?"

"Her password was one through eight."

Elizabeth snorted. "Secure."

After listening for a few more seconds, Elizabeth reached into her pocket again, this time pulling out a tiny, folding leather case. Opening it with care, she selected two of the lockpicks.

"Keep an eye out," she said. Root nodded and stood a little further out into the hall, partially blocking Elizabeth from view of the elevators as she got to work.

The first time she had picked a lock, it had taken her nearly twenty minutes to get the damn thing to open. Now, a few years later, Leslie Johnson's front door lock yielded in barely twenty seconds. Elizabeth slipped the lockpicks back into their case. She had eased the door open about an inch when Root said, "Stop. She has a cloud security camera pointed at the front door."

Elizabeth cursed and froze. Had they blown the entry already? Usually Harold Finch—John's mysterious employer, and apparently a hacker of the highest caliber—remotely disabled any Internet-connected security systems long before Elizabeth was even invited to the party. But it seemed he had missed this one. Most of the higher-end cameras were capable of sending alerts to their owners when they detected motion. If that was the case...

"Sorry," Root said. "I mean, she _had_ a cloud security camera pointed at the front door. I disabled it like two minutes ago."

" _Asshole_ ," Elizabeth hissed. She opened the door the rest of the way, eyeing the little dome mounted to the ceiling. "You sure it's off?"

"Yep. It's looping footage now until we leave."

"Great. Thanks."

Credit where credit was due: when she got down to business, Root knew how to make herself useful. Last time Elizabeth had encountered one of those cameras, there hadn't been much to do but flee. (Fortunately, Carter had taken the police report for that one, and the report had gone nowhere. The footage had mysteriously vanished from the cloud security provider's servers.) Identifying and cracking into the owner's wireless network to compromise their security systems, like Root had just done, was a great idea in theory, and a pain in the ass in practice: a slow, error-prone process with no guarantee of success. There were so many variables—differences in vendor implementations, firmware versions, network password complexity, signal strengths, firewall rules—and even under ideal circumstances, it often took an unreasonable amount of time. Elizabeth had no idea how Root had managed to do it so quickly (on a phone, no less), but she was grudgingly thankful that she had come along.

Again, not that she'd ever tell Root that.

They split up and cleared the apartment, carefully checking each room to ensure that Leslie Johnson didn't have any unexpected guests (aside from themselves, of course). Root peeked in the bedroom while Elizabeth checked the living room and front closet. Fortunately, there were no other surprises, human or otherwise.

"We have the place to ourselves," Root said, and of course, she said it in the most suggestive way possible.

"How romantic," Elizabeth said as she looked over a pile of opened mail on the dinner table. There were no late payment notices or other signs of trouble—just junk. "I love fucking in other peoples' apartments, especially ones with cameras."

"Okay," Root said thoughtfully, "I wasn't going to go there, but if you want to—"

"You're hacking her computer," Elizabeth said, pointing to a laptop computer charging on the coffee table.

"You sure _you_ don't want to do it?"

"You're way faster than I am, and you talk less when you're hacking, thank God."

"But you could use the hacking practice. And think of all the _fun_ files you could be sifting through. The browser history. The porn."

"Enjoy," Elizabeth said. "I'm going to look around."

Root shrugged and flopped on the couch, cracking her knuckles and grabbing the laptop. While she did her thing, Elizabeth prowled through the apartment, on the hunt for clues.

The first thing she noticed was the picture frame on the kitchen counter. It had been turned to face the wall. Elizabeth took note of its position and then rotated it just far enough to see the photo within.

It had been a happier time when someone had photographed Leslie and Ronald together; they were both grinning widely with their arms on each others' shoulders. With a sad smile, Elizabeth returned the photograph to its original orientation and continued on.

 _Remember when you used to think this kind of thing was creepy_? she thought to herself as she parted the turquoise bead curtain and stepped into Leslie Johnson's bedroom. _Pepperidge Farm remembers._

It was funny how fast you got used to looking through other peoples' stuff.

This wasn't really Elizabeth's area of expertise—after all, she was a cryptographer and fledgling hacker, not a sleuth—but she'd picked up enough bad habits from John and Shaw to recognize signs of suspicious activities in the people they were investigating. Sometimes the signs were obvious—guns and drugs and huge stacks of cash, for example. (Elizabeth usually nope'd the hell out of there whenever she found those, leaving it to more well-armed people like John to handle _those_ kinds of cases.) But most of the time the clues were subtler, more innocent things—journals, receipts, voicemail messages. And those usually required some digging.

She spent the next few minutes exploring the bedroom, starting at the desk by the door. Large sheets of paper were spread across it: paintings in various stages of completion, next to a tray of watercolor paints and an array of brushes. The first painting was a bust of a young woman, but it was hardly a sketch at this point. The painting next to it was likely of the same woman, but her head and hair had been filled in with rich colors; browns and tans and reds against a deep yellow background. The woman's dark eyes were disturbingly lifelike and accusatory, staring at Elizabeth as if to say, _Why are you snooping around here_?

Elizabeth made a perfunctory check of the desk drawers and, finding nothing suspicious, moved on to the walk-in closet. She slid the door aside and, seeing that it was dark, fumbled on the wall for the light switch.

When the lights came on, it took her a few seconds to realize exactly what she was looking at.

She gasped. She had found the tails. Tails, _plural_. There were at least a half-dozen, in all sorts of colors and materials. Each one was stored on one of the walls, hanging upside-down from padded hooks that cradled the underside of the wide fin.

 _These look_ amazing! she thought as she took a closer look at the nearest one. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch it, brushing her fingers gently against the textured surface and tracing along the edges of iridescent blue and green scales. The material was smooth, with a tiny bit of give to it—silicon, perhaps, or some other kind of rubber. Short, fluted fins ran along either side of the tail from the hips to the _huge_ tailfin, which was several feet across and lovingly detailed. She had to stand on her toes to get a good look.

"You want one, don't you?" Root said.

"What, me?" Elizabeth drew back her hand so fast, it was like she'd been burned. How the _fuck_ did Root sneak around like that? She crossed her arms and turned to face Root. "No way. Just admiring."

She wanted to slap the cheeky grin right off Root's face.

"It's okay, having a little kid's fantasy doesn't affect your hacker reputation. Mermaids can be hackers too, you know. You should totally get a tail like that."

"Right, whatever."

"No, seriously. I think you'd look great in one."

"Did you get anything off Leslie's computer yet?" Elizabeth said crossly.

"Oh, right," Root said. She rolled her eyes. "Got through the password prompt pretty fast. Checked out her browsing history. Downloaded her email archive from her ISP. You know, the easy stuff. I'm cloning her drive to analyze later."

"Great," Elizabeth said, motioning for Root to get out of the way. When she didn't, Elizabeth said, "Can you _move_ so we can get out of the closet?" When she saw the grin on Root's face, she growled, "Oh no, don't you _fucking_ dare."

"Dare what?" Root simpered, but at least she stepped aside. Elizabeth pushed past her.

"I hate you." She could feel Root smirking behind her. "Anything good in the emails?"

"More 'baby please come back' from the ex," Root said. "Take a look."

They sat on the couch and spent a few minutes skimming through the emails from Ronald. They were all variations on a theme: _just give me one more chance, babe_.

None of them had a response from Leslie.

"He keeps saying something about the car," Elizabeth said thoughtfully. "'I'll sell it.' Shaw made it sound like it was his pride and joy. Hard up for money?"

"He makes good dough at the detailer," Root said. "Wonder what he's spending it on?"

"My magic eight ball says drugs."

"It could be the car too," Root pointed out. "He _really_ likes the car."

"Nu-uh. It's literally _always_ drugs. Except for that one case. That guy blew all his savings on guitars. He barely even knew how to play."

"Well. I'm sure Harry is looking into Ronnie's finances as we speak."

"'Ronnie?' Harry?'"

"You know. Ronald and Harold."

Elizabeth's looked bemused. "Do you have obnoxious nicknames for _everyone_?"

"'Lizzy' isn't obnoxious. It's _endearing_."

"Okay, first off, fuck you. Second off, the fact that you chose _that_ nickname to defend means you know perfectly well that I hate it."

"I'll just have to come up with a better one."

"Whatever." Elizabeth grabbed the laptop out of Root's lap. "Did you check her social media?"

"Of course I did," Root said, and she even had the nerve to sound offended. She crossed her arms. "Not much interesting there; she keeps it mostly professional. Lots of great pictures of the mermaid getup though."

"Uh-huh. What about chat logs? I see AIM on the desktop."

Root hesitated just long enough for Elizabeth to notice. "I was saving that for you," she said.

"You were not. You forgot."

"I can't do _everything_ for you."

"Uh-huh. Jesus. AIM. Who still uses _AIM_? The nineties are calling." Elizabeth navigated to the folder where AIM kept all of its logs, and she began to browse recent messages.

"You still do, apparently. Most people don't have the log path memorized."

"Shush."

They skimmed through the log files, which were organized by contact and then by date.

"Try Maria McLane," Root suggested, pointing at one of the folders. "They're Facebook friends."

Elizabeth double-clicked the file and skimmed its contents.

" _Finally_ , something interesting," she said. "Look at that." She traced the text with her finger as she read:

" _He said he needed the money to pay a friend. And then he goes right back to the fucking slots. He_ promised _me, Maria. He fucking_ promised _it was the last time."_

"So...not drugs then," Root said, her voice deadpan.

"Gambling problem," Elizabeth agreed. "Maybe he borrowed money from someone dangerous and they want it back?"

"Or maybe he's angry at Leslie and wants revenge for cutting him off."

"Mmm." Elizabeth scrolled quickly through the rest of the folder. "There's a lot of chat logs…can you send me these please? I'll look through the rest at home." She handed Root back the laptop.

"What's the hurry?" Root asked as Elizabeth stood. "Too tempted to go look at the tails again?"

"Shush. I just don't want to hang around here too long, that's all. It's somebody else's apartment and I don't want to have to pull out Donnelly's badge if the police come knocking."

"Re _lax_ , nobody's around and Leslie won't be home for hours. Come on, embrace your temptations. Go fondle the tails again."

"...I'm leaving now."

"I'm going to find a tail on Amazon for you," Root said as Elizabeth left.

"Don't you _dare!_ "

#####

 _A/N:_ _I dedicate this chapter to SWWoman, who absolutely loves Root as a character and enjoys it when I use her as comic relief._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: To get in the mood for the car chase scene, watch youtube dot com slash watch?v= iIhy6HjnAGk_

#####

John hummed a jaunty little tone as he made his way down the sidewalk with a paper bag dangling from one hand. The sun had long since disappeared behind the line of apartment buildings, leaving behind only a faint glow in the fading sky. He reached an unremarkable brown sedan and gently knocked twice on the driver's side window. The lock clicked, and he swung himself inside.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked the car's other occupant, setting the bag on the center console.

"Nah," Joss said. "But _I_ missed _you_."

"I was only gone for fifteen minutes," John said, amused.

"That's fifteen minutes too long. I've barely seen you since this morning."

"It was a long fifteen minutes," John agreed, smiling.

They held each other's gaze for several seconds before Joss said, "Right, okay, enough lovey stuff, I'm _starved_."

"Only the best Chinese take-out for my fair lady," John said, proffering the bag.

The next few minutes were spent unpacking and enjoying the meal John had purchased from the restaurant up the road. The rich scents of Kung-Pao chicken and vegetable Chow-Mein quickly filled the car.

John and Shaw had switched roles earlier in the afternoon to avoid detection. Shaw stalked Leslie like a shadow as she left for lunch at a taqueria; meanwhile, John set up shop across the street from the car detailer and watched Ronald painstakingly apply a massive sheet of yellow vinyl wrap to a sporty coupe, shaping and smoothing the covering over the original finish with the meticulous care of a master craftsman until the vinyl was indistinguishable from a factory paint job. The display of patience was a far cry from the blustering man they had seen earlier that day.

Now, in the early twilight, John and Joss were staked out in a car outside Ronald's apartment building.

"So," Carter said between bites. "Your guy, Ron." She motioned to the second-story window of the apartment building across the street. "Heard he has a gambling problem."

"Yep. Finch is looking into his finances now."

"I got what I could on both of them," Carter said. She reached between the seat and center console, pulling out a manila folder and flipping through the pages with one hand. "Leslie's clean. Not even a speeding ticket. Ron, on the other hand…"

"A model driver?" John asked around a mouthful of chicken.

"Didn't your mama teach you to eat with your mouth closed?" Carter laughed. "No, _definitely_ not a model driver—he's had three speeding tickets and two reported accidents in the past five years. Guess the fast cars went to his head. There's also a report of an 'altercation' when he was working as a construction foreman a few months back…he was arrested but not charged, at the alleged victim's request…says here the incident escalated from a disagreement about a parking space." Carter shook her head. "I know parking in New York is frustrating, but I probably wouldn't punch someone in the face if they took my parking spot."

"'Probably'?" John asked, eyes sparkling with mirth.

"No promises. Street parking is _brutal_. Anyway. You guys dig up anything else interesting on him or Leslie?"

"Not yet."

"Mmm." Carter said.

They went back to eating. Carter wolfed down the rest of her meal, digging around in the bottom of the takeout container with her chopsticks in hope of finding one last piece of chicken. Disappointed, she closed the box and tossed it back in the bag.

"Didn't _your_ mother teach you to eat slower?" John said, amused.

"Fine, we're even now," Carter said, rolling her eyes. She picked up her phone and unlocked it. Its web browser popped up, revealing an ocean-themed website. Splashed across the header was a young woman in a sparkling green mermaid tail much like Leslie's.

"'Fin Forum', huh?" John said, spotting the name just before Carter scrolled down the page. "Are you thinking of becoming a professional mermaid too?"

Carter snorted. "Just researching."

"That's what you said last time."

Carter ignored him. "I got curious about a few things while you were gone. Found this forum about mermaiding. These people are _dedicated_. Do you realize how much the really nice tails cost? It's not a cheap hobby. Not easy, either. It takes a lot of body strength to do the dolphin kick for more than a few minutes. Plus, you have to deal with the chlorine damage to your hair and equipment, and pink eye, and kids, and the business side of things…"

"Aww, you're ruining my fantasies," John complained.

"Fantasies, huh?" Carter gave him the side eye. "You hoping to see me in one of those things?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

"Uh huh. Sure. Keep fantasizing."

"That wasn't a 'no'," John said hopefully.

"It wasn't a 'yes' either." Carter snorted. "I swam in a monofin a few times when I was younger. It's tough. Don't know if I have it in me these days."

"Your stamina last night suggests otherwise."

"Well aren't _you_ just the romantic one tonight. Seriously, you ever use a monofin? It takes a lot of effort."

"A few times. Didn't like the lack of mobility from having both feet attached to one fin."

"Fair enough. I liked the _speed_."

John's phone buzzed.

"Probably Finch," he said. He put the call on speakerphone. "Yeah, Finch?"

"Good evening, Mr. Reese, Miss Carter," said Finch, his voice tinny through the phone's external speaker. "I have completed a preliminary search on the video footage of the black SUVs spotted near Mr. William's workplace this morning. Of the three, one had a temporary registration and no license plate. Facial recognition shows the driver as one Jim Weaver, who has a criminal record—several counts of petty thievery, and recently he was charged as an accomplice as part of an attempted heist at a sporting goods store. There is at least one passenger in the vehicle, but his or her face is obscured. It should be noted that Mr. Weaver does not own a black SUV."

"Interesting. We may have to pay him a visit if he pops up again."

"Sounds sketchy," Carter agreed. "How about Ronald's finances? Any luck there on the gambling angle?"

"Mr. William is several thousand dollars in the red," Finch said flatly. "The amount of withdrawals at casino ATMs does not paint a flattering portrait of Mr. William's gambling skills."

"The house always wins," Carter said.

"Indeed, Ms. Carter. There is a telling pattern in the withdrawal locations. It appears that Mr. Williams has stopped visiting—or was kicked out of—many of the more legitimate casinos within a few dozen miles."

"Let me guess," John said. "Now it's backrooms and card tables?"

"At least one of the locations he likely visited, based on ATM proximity, was shut down last month by NYPD as part of a probe into an illicit gambling ring. At least one of the organizers is still at large."

"Great."

"Sounds like a good angle to investigate," Carter said. "I can chat with Donnelly, see if he knows anything. Maybe our guy is on his radar."

"How's Donnelly doing these days?" John asked playfully. "Is he still chasing the Man in the Suit?"

Carter rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but he's keeping it low key—he's focused on another case. Whatever Elizabeth and that batshit hacker friend of hers did a few weeks back, it got him hopping mad. Did they _really_ break into a field office in broad daylight?"

"I have it on good authority that it wasn't Elizabeth's idea."

"Yeah, well, she still went along with it, so she's a dumbass. That girl's lucky the security footage got all 'mysteriously' corrupted, 'cause now Donnelly is looking for some vague 'girl in a skirt' and a 'hacker in a hoodie'." Carter made air quotes. "Between you and me, he's horrible with nicknames."

"I dunno," John said. "The 'Man in the Suit' has a nice ring to it. Makes him sound dashing and handsome. _Mysterious_." He lowered his voice. "Sexy."

"Okay, Casanova," Carter laughed. "Don't get too full of yourself…"

#####

The night passed without incident. Early the next morning, the team switched roles again; Shaw tailed Ron to the auto shop and ducked into the coffee shop across the street, ordering a coffee and a pastry before settling in to watch Ron work on a sporty sedan, carefully prepping a body panel to work out a dent. Meanwhile, John once again donned his IT technician disguise and checked into the office building where Leslie worked to continue to "troubleshoot" the wireless network, which (courtesy of Finch) was still acting up every few hours.

They really should've changed their router's admin credentials...

Shaw idly popped another chunk of pastry into her mouth, chasing it down with a swirl of coffee. Ron continued to work on the car, oblivious to his audience of one. He knelt down next to the dented panel, his movements slow and deliberate, and carefully affixed a portable LED lamp to the side of the car with a suction cup. With the flaw clearly illuminated by the powerful light, he spent a good thirty seconds examining it from various angles, considering his options and rubbing his chin absentmindedly.

Shaw felt torn about the car. On one hand, the E30 M3 was a beautiful vehicle, a true classic, and it was nice to see that its owner was paying someone to take care of it.

On the other hand, silver was a fucking _boring_ color.

"Miss Shaw," Finch said, his urgent voice breaking into her idle thoughts, "Mr. Weaver's SUV just appeared on a traffic camera two blocks north of your location and appears to be headed your way. He has a passenger again."

"Any idea who it is?" Shaw stood up, stuffed the last of the pastry in her mouth, threw a twenty on the table, and headed for the door.

"One moment," Finch said.

Shaw stepped outside and huddled in the shadowy alcove of the entrance, every so often glancing up the street. She couldn't see the SUV amid the traffic yet. Or could she? Was that the SUV, half-hidden behind a van stopped at the light?

She waited, drumming her fingers against the cool brick wall.

"Facial recognition identifies him as one Johansen Morrison. Prior charges include assault with a deadly weapon and extortion."

"Lovely. Okay. I'll get Ron inside the building. He's out in the open in the garage. Get me backup."

"Detectives Carter and Fusco are on their way, but it will be some time before they arrive."

"Great." Shaw darted across the street, brazenly stepping in front of traffic to a chorus of angry honks. "Just great. Anybody else in the car?"

"The angle only allows me to see the front of the vehicle. There may be passengers in the rear."

"Right." She hurried across the street and stepped into the garage bay. Ron whirled around when her shadow fell across the car. He looked startled, but quickly composed himself.

"Uh, ma'am, you can't be in the garage," he said, "our insurance company doesn't allow—"

Shaw had been thinking of excuses to get Ron somewhere safe, but she couldn't come up with one in a few seconds that didn't sound completely contrived. So instead, she went with her trademarked direct approach.

"Yeah, you know that Escalade you were freaking out about yesterday?" she said. "It's coming back."

" _What_?" His eyes widened, almost comically, and he dropped the rubber mallet he'd been holding.

"Yeah, you might want to get in the office and lock the—"

"Fuck no! I'm getting out of here." And before Shaw could react, he ran outside, frantically digging around in his pocket for his car keys. Shaw caught up to him a few cars down the sidewalk as he struggled to unlock the WRX, his hands shaking too much for the key to make it into the lock.

"Dude," Shaw said, "it's New York, not an action movie. You're going to cause an accident. Get the fuck in the office, lock the door."

"I—they—you—"

" _I_ am trying to save your life," Shaw said, impatience filtering through her voice. She glanced up the road. "Get in the—"

She was cut off by screeching tires as the Escalade lurched to a stop in front of the shop's garage bays, the passenger doors flying open. Two hulking men stepped out in sync, both armed with pistols, and advanced on the garage. For a precious few seconds, it seemed they had not noticed that the quarry was no longer inside.

"Plan B," Shaw said. She snatched the keys out of Ron's hands and deftly unlocked the front door, swinging inside, pulling the seat forward, and unlocking the other doors all at the same time. She slammed her foot down on the clutch. "Get in the back."

"What—you can't—!" Ron sputtered.

"Get in or make nice with your friends, your choice."

Ron made up his mind a split-second before the driver of the SUV noticed him and shouted to his cohorts. By then, Shaw had the twin-turbo engine roaring to life.

"Get down!" She shouted. Shaw gave him just enough time to dive for the floor mats before she got the RPMs right where she wanted them and dumped the clutch. With a terrific squeal, all four wheels spun and then caught on the asphalt, launching the car forward and pressing Shaw back into the seat—briefly, before the car began to wander out from under her. _God damn stance bros_ _and their dumbass tires_ _,_ she thought, easing off just enough for the tires to grip properly and guiding the car the way she wanted it to go. Even with the delay, the engine sang and soon hit redline, bouncing off the limiter for a split second before Shaw shifted. Behind her, Ron let out a colorful stream of curses and the passenger door slammed shut.

"You crazy-!" Ron's head was visible in the rearview.

" _Down_ ," Shaw reminded him. He command was punctuated by a dull _pop,_ _pop-pop_ _—_ all misses—and then a much louder _crack_ as the passenger side mirror exploded into shrapnel. In response, Shaw casually yanked the handbrake for a split second and jerked the wheel, sending the car careening left across the intersection through a brief gap in the traffic. Shaw, of course, was braced for the maneuver, but Ron was not, and he tumbled back down to the floor.

The car drifted a little further than Shaw had intended, but she recovered with aplomb and opened up the throttle—a little less than she usually would, to compensate for Angry McDumbass' crooked tires—to gain a little distance and plan her next move.

"You know these douchenozzles?" she asked as the Escalade lumbered around the corner, its nose briefly rising as the driver jammed his foot on the accelerator. While it was a far cry from the WRX, the Escalade still had a respectable amount of torque and horsepower. Shaw would have to win on maneuverability.

"Uh—I—I think I owe them money?" Ron stammered out.

"You think?" She nudged the wheel sharply, swinging the car around a Camry that was going a little too slow for Shaw's liking. "How do you _think_ you owe somebody money?"

"I fucked up, okay?"

Shaw sighed. "How much?"

"...fifty grand," he said sullenly. "I was on a streak."

"And then you weren't," Shaw said. She tapped her ear. "Yo, Finch? How about some GPS?"

"Of course, Miss Shaw," Finch said, his placid tones at odds with the deep growl of the WRX's boxer engine and Ron's panicked gasps as Shaw continued to weave around slower vehicles. "Take the next right."

Shaw glanced, her mind intuitively judging speeds and distances. "Can't. Truck in the way."

She heard furious typing, and then Finch said, "The one after that then. I'll take care of the signals."

"Gotcha." She dove in front of the truck, ignoring the furious honking, and _drifted_ the car around the corner, narrowly avoiding a lamppost and a food truck. She accelerated again, exceeding the speed limit by a comfortable margin, but she kept the gears low and the RPMs high. Now that she had a little space between them and their pursuers, she could afford to lose a little speed in favor of maneuverability. Too much speed would get them killed, or at the very least, make it more difficult to make quick maneuvers as opportunities presented themselves.

Once again, the Escalade appeared in the rearview mirror. They were gaining. Shaw gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to floor it.

"Next light, left," Finch said in her ear. As she approached, the green light turned yellow. She gunned it—and then had to slam on the brakes and swerve hard around the _chickenshit_ sedan that decided that it wasn't about to run through a yellow light like every other New Yorker in existence. As a result, she missed the turn.

"Probably from fucking California," Shaw grumbled as she picked up speed on the straight. The Escalade blew through the red light behind her, narrowly missing a car that had jumped the green. "Finch, alternate?"

More furious typing. "Miss Shaw, you seem to be off your game today."

"I'd like to see you drive with these dumbass wheels."

"Hey!" Ron said. Shaw ignored him.

The Escalade continued to gain; obviously, whoever was driving had their foot all the way to the ground.

"Finch," Shaw said tightly.

A pause, then, hesitantly, "If you can make the turn into that parking structure, my cameras show no pedestrians—"

"On it!"

"-it's rather narrow-"

"No balls," Shaw said, grinning, and she dove for the entrance.

"The gate!" Ron bellowed. For a moment, it looked as though they would hit the caution bar across the entrance, but like magic, the gate began to rise just in time. There was a brief scrape from on the roof, and Ron moaned.

"My _car!_ "

Behind them, the gate reversed and moved back down, right in front of the Escalade. It hit the gate and knocked it violently aside.

"Are you sure you _only_ borrowed fifty K?" Shaw asked as she braked hard to make the corner and flung the car around it, racing down the aisle towards the exit at the other end of the garage. She hoped Finch's cameras were accurate. In cramped quarters like this, and at the speed they were going, an impact was more than likely. "This feels more like a hundred grand chase to me. Maybe two hundred."

"It was fifty, I swear!"

"Well, I've killed for less," Shaw said.

Once again, Finch worked his magic at the exit gate and it opened just in time for them to slip under it and onto the street. Thankfully, there were no cars in the way; he must have tinkered with the signal up the road as well.

A few seconds later, Shaw saw the Escalade burst out of the garage, once again ramming straight through the gate. This time though, part of the bar had gotten wedged beneath the vehicle. They were dragging it along with them in a shower of sparks. The driver was fighting to keep the vehicle straight against the uneven drag.

But they still kept coming.

"Dammit," Shaw sighed. Her eyes scanned the road ahead, looking for any opportunities, before settling on the raised roadway running parallel.

"Finch," she said, "how's traffic on the highway?"

Ahead of them, the road split, the lanes divided by a tree-lined barrier; Shaw's lanes continued straight, but the oncoming traffic on the other side curved up an onramp to the highway.

"Light. For New York, at least. Can you make the U-turn ahead?"

Shaw grinned. "Watch me," she said. The intersection was coming up quickly. She stayed in the middle lane until the last moment, when she slammed on the breaks, yanked the handbrake again to lock up the rear wheels, and whipped the tail around, making the car skid backwards into the intersection. She caught a brief glimpse of the Escalade driver, his mouth open in shock, as the car squealed its way around the U-turn until the nose was pointing the other way. This time, she applied just the right amount of throttle to get the wheels to catch as quickly as possible and she accelerated as fast as the tires would allow, going back the way they had come on the other side of the divider. There was no way the Escalade could make that turn, not at a reasonable speed.

By the time Shaw reached the base of the onramp, she could barely see the Escalade behind them. It looked like it hadn't turned tight enough and was trying to back up.

"So long, suckers!" Shaw scoffed, flipping them the bird. At the top of the onramp, she opened up the throttle. With the roar of twin turbos, they were gone.

#####


End file.
